


This Grand Universe

by audenwood



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2009 Phan, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audenwood/pseuds/audenwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He meets Phil Lester and it's the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Grand Universe

He meets Phil Lester and it's the end of the world.

The boy sort of smiles at him as he gets off the train, all miniature but sheepish curves of a pink mouth and lanky build and lame haircut and eyes the color of the skies after a storm, and Dan knows that this is how he is going to die: staring into those eyes as those white hands cut him open, inch by inch.

(He also knows that this is how he is going to come alive again: staring into those eyes as those white hands stitch him up, inch by inch.) 

But he sees him as he steps off into the semi-crowded platform, black converse on dirty concrete, and it only takes that smile to spot him and set him apart from the rest. Look, it's the face that he's been staring at on his grungy little computer screen. He's wearing plaid over dark wash denim jeans, of all things. It's as if he's making an extra effort to encourage that _overgrown adolescent filled to the brim with angst_  lookthat he's already so good at pulling off without trying at all. He's waving, unabashedly, the way he does everything when it comes to something he cares about. Something inside of Dan bursts, like a dam that's been kept at bay for too long. It's the end of the world, but maybe it's alright.

Maybe this is his best friend.

Phil's cry of a greeting breaks him a little bit: "Dan!"

That's just the thing. That's _just_ the _thing_. He isn't sentimental, alright, and it's nothing to brag about; it's just fact. He doesn't take most happenings in stride, because he's dramatic, but being sentimental is another nut to crack altogether. Whatever life wants to throw at him, it throws at him and it has no qualms about whether it ruins his plans by doing that, because that's the way that life goes. He isn't fully idle, he doesn't have that luxury, but sentiment just isn't part of the equation most of the time and he can't force it in there. There's a little twang in the way that his name sounds on Phil's tongue, though, that's threatening to drive a nail into his toe, that's how much physical pain he feels running towards him when he hears that little _twang_. It makes him swallow, hard. 

He can't say anything, so he just shuffles over and braves a smile, and it works. Suddenly Phil's face is the morning sun and it's too much in this dark, public place.

Phil says, "I can't believe you're here." 

And Dan replies with, "You sound more Northern in person." 

Phil quirks an eyebrow, and something tugs at the corner of his mouth in tandem with Dan's mouth, and he laughs. Dan laughs, too, and there's something like a melody sounding in the air, amid the warm bodies and loud calls, the sounds of humanity. He wonders, idly, if Phil expects a hug. They have built their friendship with the tedious craft blocks known as long Skype calls and ominous Twitter conversations and endless streams of texts, but that's more intimate than one might believe and he _knows_ Phil. The only missing piece was his physical manifestation, and see here—he's got it now, yeah? Phil's the type of lad that goes in favor of the embrace as opposed to the customary handshake, and it makes him quiver a little bit, because he doesn't want to embarrass himself—not here, not now. 

So he doesn't hug him, and Phil doesn't try to hug him. All is well. Baby steps, little bugger, baby steps. 

"I'm not 'more Northern' in person," Phil argues, jokingly and with a little tease in his voice. "You're just — _not_ Northern." 

"Amazing," says Dan. "You're exactly the same in real life." 

Bad comebacks masked as quirky quips, that's it. He loves it. It fits Phil nicely. 

"That's because I'm myself," Phil says, indignant, but only just. It makes Dan smile all the more, because this is nice and this is comfortable. For the better part of the journey here, he felt the pits in his stomach grow into wide, infinite gapes; he and Phil were two peas in a messy little pod when they had the safety of being separate. Now that luxury is gone. Meeting each other in the flesh could be the best thing that has ever happened to either of them, or the worst. He doesn't believe in Phil's ability to stress out too much, at least not in the same way that Dan certainly had, prior to this. That was Phil, and that was one of the reasons they supplemented each other so well. Dan worried, and Phil worried but less than Dan did. It _worked_. There was _balance_. 

"Good," says Dan, and he gives Phil a little nudge in the arm. It's kind of awkward, since they're standing face-to-face, and his arm makes a weird angle when he does it, but Phil doesn't really care. "I'm glad. It could have been worse. You could have ended up being a strange psycho." 

But he never really feared that.

Phil's eyebrow raises, and he shakes his head, that vast grin still playing at his thin lips. Dan fancies him rather pleased, so far, and he's glad. 

"Come on, then," says Phil, and he returns the nudge to the arm. Dan imagines himself exploding with that single touch. It's not that elaborate of a fantasy. He fully believes that Phil has the power to transform him into a bomb, instantaneously, and it's not the older boy's fault. Dan is the one that has given him that right. If that isn't terrifying—the _keel over and lose your pizza lunch_ level of terrifying—then nothing out there can scare him, never again. "You didn't come visit just to stand here, I don't think." 

Phil takes the initiative, which Dan appreciates, and he follows after him as they make to leave the station. It smells like smoke, from the train, and it fills the nostrils of all that surround it. Dan rubs a thumb over a loose thread in his dark sweater as he opens his mouth, to make a remark or something of that ilk, and he forgets what he was going to say when a middle-aged woman with a red face and hair to match and far too much worry engraved into her eyes crashes into Phil, her purse slipping off her shoulder and onto the ground. It's the first time that Dan has experienced, firsthand, the walking catastrophe that is Phil Lester and he has to stifle a hideous snort of a chuckle as it scurries out of his mouth. Oh, he's heard the accounts over late-night conversations: _"Dan, you won't believe what happened today, it was the most ridiculous thing, I don't think the man across the street is ever going to look at me again..."_

And so forth. There's just a certain novelty in seeing it unfold right before his eyes, concrete evidence that he has, indeed, been correct in believing that the Phil Lester he's known for what feels like ages is the Phil Lester that is standing with him now, for the very first time. 

"I'm sorry," says Phil, and the woman says the exact same thing, at the exact same time. They both stare at each other. Phil appears to have taken on the countenance of a deer crossing a lonely street only to suddenly be stalled by the headlights of an intruding car. His counter—the woman—is simply exhausted, there's no eloquent way to put it. And Dan is growing impatient. He's never liked just standing there, like an extra piece of flesh, like a useless lump of muscles that some force of nature took the time to fix onto an arranged set of bones just to stand there and do nothing. So he, once again, makes to say something, and that's when Phil quickly leans down and picks up the woman's pale pink purse, offering it to her lamely. It's very fortunate that it was zipped. No contents were spilled; what a mess _that_ would have been. 

"Sorry," he repeats, but it's not like a robot programmed to say _this, this, this_ until it elicits a response; there's more than an inkling of something in his voice that says _genuine_. Phil Lester might just be the realest person that Dan's ever met. It's a little bit exciting and a little bit nerve-wracking. Dan is Dan, and that means he's never been above vying for attention with whatever method he sees fit. He's looking to change that, he is, and he just wishes that he had been able to change that before he got on a train and emerged from it to stand in front of Phil Lester. 

"Don't worry about it," says the woman, her voice faint like the breeze ravaging the still of the evening. She looks out of place in life as she trots off, her boots making noises on the cement, not turning around or acknowledging Phil when he calls out another single-word apology, like he's trying to expel all the guilt he's ever felt—now, in this moment. The last of her lilac perfume dissipates with the pollution of the engine that is behind them now. 

"Look, I've gone and done it," says Phil, and he runs those long fingers through that long hair without even thinking about it. Dan has seen that absent little look on his face before, and he is seeing it now and it's just fractionally surreal, no big deal. Neither of them has to say what exactly it is he has gone and done—he's embarrassed himself, as per usual. 

This might be the beginning of something greater, Dan dares to think in a fleeting moment of passing time. 

"You're ridiculous," says Dan. Voicing his thoughts isn't always the most brilliant course of action, true, but right now it seems to be the most ingenious course of action, so he takes it. "You're _amazing_." 

"Sarcasm noted," Phil says, in relation to Dan's latter statement, and he places his hands in the pocket of his jacket with an unforgivably dramatic flair that Dan would roll his eyes at if he felt a bit more settled. "What do you want to do first?"

Dan's amusement slips off, and he shrugs, tentatively. "I thought you had a plan or something."

"I do," says Phil, easily, like he was hoping Dan would say that and then Dan realizes that he _was_ hoping he would say that. "Just thought it'd be polite to ask that first." 

"Right," Dan says, still uneasy. There's no reason to be, though; he realizes this, and he's able to release the tension building up in his shoulders. "Lead the way, mate." 

"So, my mum is desperate to meet you," Phil says, changing the subject, and he turns around and begins to walk. Once again Dan follows behind him. 

"I can't imagine why," Dan looks anywhere but Phil. He should be drinking in the sight of him. "What on earth have you told her about me?"

"Only good things, I promise." 

"Like there's _so_ many." 

They both realize how immature Dan sounds—rather like the _ridden_   _with misery teen_ that he once was, when he _was_ a teen, and Phil laughs. "There is!" 

"Okay, okay, I take your word for it," Dan says, and he looks at Phil at the same time that Phil looks at him and for the first time, they establish eye contact of the real sort, not the tedious type that they had going on back in the station, when Dan first stepped off the train. Phil's eyes are lighter, he realizes, now that he's seeing them as they are and not over dingy webcams and unreliable photographs. The image isn't the person, after all.

The person is infinitely better. 

He's not about to tell him that, though, because whatever it is that he's meant to have with Phil, it's going to take time and it's going to take effort and quite frankly, it's more than enough—more than he could have ever hoped for—just to be walking with him now, out of the crowded station and into the crowded street, and now Dan falls into step with Phil. They turn around the corner and the essence of fall surrounds them: flashes of orange from the leaves of aging trees, and shops with window displays that offer coffee, tea, pastries, warm delicacies and fine goods. Aromas of baking bread wafting through open doors and into the air, and then the poison emitting from cars to contrast this. Two blonde twins, both male, are screaming about a cup of hot chocolate that they're meant to share. Across the street, more shops, more displays, more children, more adults. Everyone and then his friend, next to him, with a smile on his face meant for him and one on Dan's to match. 

Phil says, "About my mum, though - you can meet her when you come home with me, later. There's loads of time, and I've got loads planned." 

He exaggerates, Dan knows, so he doesn't take his claim that he's got loads planned seriously. It's the word _later_ that really strikes a chord, though; a major chord, the height of a long symphony. There's always going to be a later for them. They have time—they have time together. 

It's the end of the world.

If Phil is here, that can't be something terrible. 

**Author's Note:**

> Take this with a grain of salt — I, in no way, claim to have a full grasp on who Dan and Phil really are. This is just a frivolous piece of fic. Also, this piece is purely experimental. I tread with caution when it comes to RPF.


End file.
